Slayer of Light
by Morfea
Summary: Challenge response from TtH. When Buffy jumped in The Gift, she gets offered a new life... will she take it?
1. Chapter 1

Author's Note: This is a work in progress

Author's Note: This is a work in progress. It may be a very long time to post and to be completed, so please bear with me whilst I try to wrestle this around a full time job. This is a response to Challenge 3100: Galadriel the slayer by Voldemort over at TtH.

I'm going to try and keep this in accordance with Tolkien's works, but it's been a while since I read Unfinished Tales, so let me know if I slip up drastically.

DISCLAIMER: I own nothing. Just my laptop and a very jumbled imagination. And my cat. Buffy and co belongs to Joss Whedon and respective parties, The Lord of the Rings belongs to Christopher Tolkien and his estate. In short, me no own, don't sue. Please.

Now… Enjoy!!

* * *

The portal spanning below her, she looked at her sister, her blood, and uttered those final three words: "live, for me". Without giving time for Dawn to stop her, she raced off the platform, executed a perfect swan dive, and fell… to be consumed by energy.

As the energy surged through her body, she knew she had done the right thing. She accepted her choice, and would soon be at peace.

"Now, kid, the Powers are very pleased with you" an annoying Bronx accent pierced her silent world. She opened her eyes. A vast expanse of white surrounded her, flooding her eyes with the brightness, except for a small blot of badly dressed demon.

Her mouth settled into a thin line as she growled out the name, "Whistler…"

The demon took a defensive step back. "Look kid, I know you haven't had it easy, but please hear me out". His hands sprawled out in front of him in the universal symbol of 'please-don't-slay-me-and-I've-grown-quite-fond-of-my-ribs-on-the-inside-whilst-we're-at-it'.

Buffy couldn't believe it. Or maybe she could. After all, the Powers always seem to screw her life up more and more, a little thing like death wouldn't stop them from manipulating her life even further. "Talk. You've got five seconds to tell me why I'm stuck here and why my boot isn't connecting with your face".

Whilster sighed. Why were Slayers so violent? "Ok, here's the deal. You did good. You figured it all out, and the Powers That Be are very grateful for all that you've done. But there is still more work to be done, if you are willing to take it. This is an offer, if you say no then you'll get you're reward, a ticket into Heaven, and be at peace. But there are those who need you. There is another world, perfect for a slayer, where you can be at peace as well, but eventually there will be baddies and evil to thwart. And lets face it, you won't be able to slay in Heaven. Your role within this world is to be yourself. To kick evil's butt when it needs it, but also to take a break when you can. As I said, it's up to you."

Buffy considered her options. Heaven sounded lovely after the recent trials, but she also knew that the smouldering slayer within her, the animalistic warrior, would love the chase and hunt of the big bads. "What's the catch? The Powers are letting me go to some fantasy land and kick evil butt? And it's my choice? Surely they would have just transferred me there without asking me first if there wasn't a catch."

"Smart thinking Slayer. But your help has been petitioned for by the Powers of this other world. And they are somewhat kinder to Free Will than the PTB. As you will be under their guidance, the Valar have demanded that it will be down to you to make the choice. Wouldn't mind working for them myself, if you ask me". Inwardly, Whistler was impressed at the Slayer's cunning, but then the PTBs have been arrogant bastards over the years as well. What he wouldn't give for a dental plan, or a break every now and then…

Buffy was convinced. "Ok, I'll do it. Just one condition… Keep an eye on Dawn for me?" Her voice trailed off into an almost-whisper.

The sad smile on the demons face said it all. "Sure thing, Slayer. Enjoy your new life."

Her vision began to blur again, the stark whiteness of the room disappearing, muddling up and blending together. Nausea made her head swim through a sea of fog as her eyelids shut together, and body relaxed, drawing out the tension from her limbs.


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: See Chapter One

Disclaimer: See Chapter One. Summary: me no own, don't sue.

* * *

A soft drum beat… thud-um, thud-um, thud-um… A cocoon of warmth, holding her, encasing her. Soft and safe. Cushioned against the outside world, nothing mattered in her dark embrace. Occasionally, a soft murmur would reach her ears, a jumbled sound of comfort and longing. Sweet and serene, it soothed her unknown panic and radiated calmness. Restlessness soon set into her as she remembered fragments of life. Of a girl, of darkness, and of monsters. Of a brunette whining to her, and of a grey-haired man polishing some sort of eye-glass. She would kick out against these intruders of her nest, flailing arms and legs in an attempt to fight them away from her mind. These were always followed by a soothing song, a murmuring noise which calmed her fears and panic. She had never heard any pattern so beautiful as the song, and so she always stopped fighting, enraptured by the melodious voice.

Time seemed to have no meaning in her cocoon. Save the regular thud-um, thud-um, she drifted in a daze, content to be in this warm haven. She had periods of rest, and periods of sleep. Sometimes she would ponder where she was, but that was overridden by an overwhelming sense of it just… feeling right. She laugh with delight as her nest would sometimes spin round and round, like on a fair ride, moving in time to an unnoticeable beat.

As free as she was, she began to grow. It was hardly obvious at first, but soon her walls of comfort began to shrink, and her room become all the more uncomfortable. Her body became constricted, unable to move as much as before, and she found herself gradually rotating. Her head now cramped towards the bottom of her nest, feet still able to kick out at the interruption to her floating.

Then it happened. Cold, pain and change interrupted her own little world. Her soft walls contracted around her, pushing her of the softness. She did not want to go! To be in the cold and hard unknown, it was torture for her. She longed to be back in safety, to where she could float and be cushioned. Why was she being subjected to such a harsh and hostile world? She just could not understand it. She opened her mouth to cry out in objection and was suddenly hit with a lungful of air. Her lungs started expanding, filling her with rich oxygen, and rough, warm hands held her, before wrapping her up into another cocoon. This new nest was rough, and dry, it enveloped her body whilst still allowing her mouth and nose to breathe this strange new air.

Sounds ravaged upon her tiny ears. Sharp clangs and bangs which made her head clatter and feel like exploding. Rough voices shouting out in excitement. It was all too much for her to take in. So, she started to cry out, to join in with the cacophony that was assaulting her. It felt good to expand her lungs, to let the air vibrate over the vocal chords.

Her eyelids started to open. Bright! So much light! Ai! How much it hurt! She quickly snapped her eyes shut, blocking out the torrent of light. A stirring in the air above her, waves of movement travelling down and reaching her skin, caused her to open her eyes again, only cautiously this time. She looked up to see huge shapes descending down to her, growing bigger as they reached her. A figure was behind those terrible shapes, with golden hair flowing from the top. The looming shapes reached around her new nest and picked her up. She cried out again for such rough treatment, such jerking actions taking her by surprise and alarm.

She was moved over to a warm body, a lovely face smiling down to her. Cradled against the comfort of the body, she began to fall asleep, the trauma of being removed from her lovely and safe environment too much for her to take in. She never heard the softly whispered "Artanis, daughter of Finarfin" as she settled into a deep sleep.


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: me no own, don't sue. See Chapter One for more details.

* * *

Her lungs locked, mouth open wide, vocal chords primed to deliver a terrible scream to pierce the heightened ears of those around her. Ready to exclaim her displeasure, a pair of hands reached down to pick her up, and to hold her high in the air, her intended cry came out as a jumbled gurgle, mixing into a tinkling laugh. Artanis' eldest brother Finrod swooped her around, on her own personal fair ground ride. Relief flooded into his eyes as her wail was averted. Artanis was by no means a quiet child. Her charming looks only added to her bossiness, and she had most of her family and household servants wrapped around her tiny finger. And when she was upset, everyone knew. How she would ever end up with the serene and grace of her kin, was baffling to think about. In the least it would be interesting to find out.

At a mere two and a half years old, her house had been overturned. Who with any spark of good in their hearts could say no to those sparkling blue eyes? To the tremble of her rosy lips, and the most gloriously golden hair that competed in radiance with the Two Trees themselves. Already she showed signs of being far superior to her kin. She could crawl around her nursery with a competence and determination that mixed with her glee of freedom. And at such a pace too.

Finarfin walked into the room. His mouth widened into a deep smile as he saw his son doting and engaging with his daughter. Finrod smiled back and his delightful sister squealed as he moved her even higher into the air. When he at last stopped to regard his father, Artanis huffed. She was enjoying her ride, why did it have to stop so suddenly? She looked beyond Finrod, hoping to find the source of her displeasure. Her eyes saw her father.

"Ada!" She said, "Ada", and held her arms to him. Maybe he would spin her around some more. Finarfin smiled as Finrod held her out for him to take. With careful movements, he plucked her out of her brother's arms and held her aloft. She reached out to tug on his blonde hair. She loved playing with his hair, and he let her do it, no matter the amount of effort required to untangled it afterwards. Her small hand came to grasp the strands and he smiled again down at her.

"Have you been playing with your brother, little one?" he inquired, watching her gentle face scrunch up trying to form the words.

"Dinrod!" Her features again trying to form the "f" sound which she knew was missing. But her small tongue could not produce the difficult sound.

Her father laughed. It was a deep, beautiful laugh. "Yes, little one, Finrod."

It was nice to have a little girl at last within the family, with three elder brothers to dote on her, not including countless relatives, he knew she would not be short of attention.

"I think you have had enough excitement, why don't I read you a story?" her brother asked. For her begetting day, she had received a book of tales from her Uncle Fingolfin. Writing had only been around for 190 years, so it was indeed a most precious gift.

As he took the book from the shelf, a strange stirring fluttered through her memory. An older man, with rounded ears and strange hairs on his lower face stood behind a desk. He held a heavier, clumsier book in front of him, with strange markings on its front. As the book landed on the desk, dust floated from it. The man looked at her expectantly, as if she should recognise the volume. Artanis thought this was silly. How could a unfamiliar person look at her so? Someone she had never met, or met any of his like. And yet, the scene seemed vaguely significant, and almost tangible.

The thought swam back into her subconsciousness as she become engrossed in the words falling from her brothers lips. If he took any notice of her sudden lapse, he never displayed it, watching as the rhythm of his words lulled her into a sleepy trance. Soon she was fast asleep in her cot, dreaming of strange places and strange people.

Finrod gently closed the book as he saw that his sister was slumbering. He softly put the book back, and pulled the covers over her.


	4. Chapter 4

Disclaimer: Me no own, don't sue. See Chapter One for more details.

Author's Note: I am sorry to say this as I hate ruining chapters with endless ramblings, but an important point must be made here. Elves age more slowly than humans, reaching majority at fifty years old, the human equivalent of sixteen. As such four years is the equivalent of about fifteen months in human development terms. If in doubt, divide elven years by 3.125 to get equivalent human age.

* * *

It was the stirring of another presence beside her bed that made Artanis sit up with alarm and caution. There should not be anyone approaching her room, and she had made that fact quite clear in her sleep, even going so far as to instinctively kick and lash out to whoever disturbed her sleep. She recognised the fëa approaching her, the distinctly passionate and stubborn streaks glistening through her mental awareness and her eldest brother, Finrod.

But why would Finrod be approaching her chambers? There was no need for him to do so, anything he had to tell her could be done at the breakfast table, once she was up and dressed like a reasonable person. She quickly climbed out of her bed, and wrapped a gown around her body. As he grew nearer, Artanis was able to discern a certain joyousness and bounce in his spirit.

Ever since she could remember, she had always been able to sense those around her. Her mother explained to her that she was picking up on other's fëa, their spirit. It was remarkable that was able to do this at such an early age, and with such clarity too, the speculation of how much her skill will grow to was the talk of Tirion, and indeed, began to spread throughout Aman. However, when she looked, or even glimpsed, into the nature of the fëa, she would be filled with an overwhelming sense of judgement that she weighed out with measure. So far, everyone she had met had passed this inner test, that is, except for her uncle Fëanor. That he was next in line for the throne of High King of the Noldor seemed silly in her eyes. Surely the others could sense that his heart flickered, like flames in a roaring fire? She quickly banished these thoughts from her mind. Now was not the time to be thinking such things, not when her brother was advancing even nearer still to her suite.

A light knock at the door. "Yes, do come in Finrod," she replied. Waiting until he was fully in the room, she began her light inquisition. "And pray tell me just what you are thinking, coming to my rooms at such an hour? Did it not occur to you that I might not be dressed yet? Or even worse, still slumbering and frightened out of my wits thinking that you were an intruder?" A small frown appeared across her delicate features.

Her brother laughed. "Oh come now Artanis, have you forgotten what today is? Today is the day of the great Archery Contest held outside the walls of the city, on the great grassy slopes of Túna."

She mentally kicked herself. Of course! How in Arda could she have forgotten? She had been looking forward to this event ever since it was announced five years ago. She smiled to herself as she remembered picking up a bow for the first time. She was only four years old, barely walking unaided, when her small hands gripped onto a small practise bow that her brother Aegnor must have left lying around. Her delicate yet cumbersome tiny hands found it hard to grip onto the sturdy bow, but somehow they managed it. Even more intriguing was that they managed to find the right positions to hold the bow in. In just seemed to feel right within her. She loaded an arrow after some difficulty, but eventually fired her first shot – right out of the window and into a trunk of a near-by tree.

The satisfaction of the bow never left her, if anything it grew more intense as she aged. When she was but sixteen, her brothers taught her how to use a bow, how to aim correctly, and how to ensure a perfect shot every time. Needless to say, she flourished under the gentle tuition, a calm air of ease and clarity surrounding her every time she picked up the weapon. Occasionally, a niggling familiarity would drift into her mind, a sense that she was somehow holding the bow incorrectly, and it should be placed horizontally rather than vertically. She found this all very odd, but learned to live with it.

Her mind re-focused to the present, Finrod was awaiting a response.

"Today is the day of the contest! That is good news." She beamed at her brother. "So, just how much money am I going to win you today?"

Finrod had the good grace to blush. "Absolutely nothing, dear sister, but if you wouldn't mind coming out on tops, there may be some gain from it" He grinned in conspiracy.

"And would it, by any means, have something to do with Turgons new found obsession with how hard the maids work whilst washing our clothes?"

"That would be telling… but he may end up finding out first hand!"

"Hmm… I'll see what I can do. But race you to the Great Square!" And with that, she set off, Finrod dutifully running after her, laughter trailing behind them in the air.


	5. Chapter 5

Disclaimer: Me no own, don't sue. To save the handmaiden from being thrown to the crocodiles, turn to page sixty two; to see a full disclaimer, turn to Chapter One.

Author's Note: Many thanks to blueyes for pointing out my errors. In this updated version, I am using ellon as an elf-man, elleth as an elf-maid, ellyn as plural elf-men, and ellyth as plural elf-maid. I know that ellyth could also be spelt ellith, but I find it easier if both plurals were spelt with a 'y'

* * *

The dull thwack of wood being hit at high speeds soon caught up to Artanis' ears. She giggled in excitement as they drew close enough to the main event that she could see the ranges, and the practising going on. Her legs ran faster as the sight spurred her on. Finrod was having a hard time maintaining such a speed, dwarfed by his sister's natural strength.

As the shooting range came into sight, she could see some familiar faces in the crowd. The range was positioned beneath a rolling lush hill, so that spectators could easily watch the events cushioned on blankets. Many families and friends came with baskets full of fruits, meats, breads, cheeses and wines which were shared out between groups. The unmarried ellyth were decked in their good gowns, as such a social occasion like this was too much of an opportunity to miss to be with their suitors and intendeds. As such, quite a few coy smiles and longing looks were shared throughout the course of the day.

Where the hill levelled out, a fairway flowed out until it was abruptly met by a large copse of trees. On the far side of the strip, five wooden targets had been set up at varying distances. At the start, a long line had been marked onto the grass, where a slightly bulky ellon stood. He was Cúantur, the archery master. Still in the prime of his long years, Cúantur was a patient character, having taught the young elflings how to draw a bow, to hold the correct stance, and to shoot with accuracy. Many friendly exchanges were taking place as a lot of the elves had been his students in the past. On the far side of the strip, ten wooden targets had been set up at varying distances.

Antaris eyed the targets. They were set at a hundred yards to begin with, but she knew that they would be set further back for each round. Over fifty elves would be competing in the tournament, showing off their strengths and skills to the city. Most of them were from Tirion like herself, but a quite a few came from Alqualondë, and deep into Aman came a couple of the Vanyar.

A wave caught her attention. Her family had gathered near to the base of the hill. A couple of her brothers and cousins would also be competing, as nobles among the Teleri, they had all been taught how to hunt from a young age, and they would be showcasing their skills today.

An uneasy feeling settled into the bottom of her stomach. She turned around to her left, and standing there, sure enough, was a proud ellon with jet black hair. A steady jaw accompanied passionate eyes, as his fëa flickered like fire. Standing among the throngs of elves was Fëanor, a truly gifted individual. He was an excellent craftsman, and his heart burnt with firey heat. It was for this quality that he was mother-named 'Spirit of Fire', for deep within his fëa was like the heat of the forges he worked him. Antaris did not trust him. He always made her feel uncomfortable, no matter how hard her family urged her to put aside her differences.

He spoke first, before she had time to engage in a different conversation. "Artanis, I see you are going to enter the competition. What chances would do you think you have against all these rivals? Surely such a young elleth like yourself would be better off leaving the competition for the ones who deserve it, no? Maybe you deem to show them all what you are truly made of?" His voice crawled under her skin.

His tone, slightly mocking, made her stand up straighter in pride. He thought her archery was lesser than her opponents? He would soon see the truth of the matter, of that she had no doubt. "Lord Fëanor, I am sure that I will rise to the challenge, and just because I wear a dress does not mean I cannot shoot."

"Ah, what an image you are too. Your hair, as ever is gloriously brilliant. As the people say, your hair has captured the light of the Two Trees incredibly. The golden fruits of Laurelin and the silver flowers of Telperion weep at the radiance of your tress. I beg you, allow me to have but a single lock of our hair, and I would be indebted to you forever." His eyes softened as he spoke.

"My hair stays on my head, Lord Fëanor. I would not let you, or anyone have a single tress just because it is radiant. I beseech you not to discuss this matter further. But, if you will excuse me, I need to warm up for the contest." A steely tone drifted into her voice.

"Very well, my Lady, I will leave you to practise. I wish you the best of luck." And with that, he sauntered off into the crowd.

She could feel a hand on her shoulder. Her mother, Eärwen, had watched the scene unfold. Artanis gladly took the silent comfort offered and gathered the rest of her wits about her. After all, she would definitely be needing them for the upcoming trials.

She would be competing in the fourth wave of competitors. The best half from each wave would go through to the second round, where the target would be placed even further away, until the last two would have to fire until almost at the copse, quite a way away.

The grip felt natural in her hands. The cheers of the crowd behind her set her on edge, but she knew she could easily land the centre of the target, no more than eighty feet away. It was child's play for her. Her arm pulled the notched arrow back, string tightening with strain, with a calm breath, she loosed the arrow. Her enhanced eyesight followed the movement of the shaft as it sailed through the air. With a satisfying thud, it landed right in the centre of the target. Her lips quirked into a half-smile of relief. She knew she could have easily made the shot, but it still felt good not to mess up on her first try.

The next few rounds continued in much the same manner, the accuracy in which the arrows embedded into the wood of the target were boosting her confidence more and more. Until there were only four competitors left…


	6. Chapter 6

Disclaimer: Me no own, don't sue. To storm the castle, you'll need a wheelbarrow. To read a full disclaimer, you just need to turn to Chapter One.

* * *

Her breathing evened out. Her concentration focused into the accuracy of the shot. A hand pulled back on the taught string, eyes aiming at the distant target… just a little more to the left...

Fire!

She let go.

The arrow arched through the sky, travelling along in a smooth curve before landing directly in the centre of the target.

Artanis looked at her rivals. Standing to her right was Aredhel, her cousin. A feisty elleth, deadly with a bow stood dressed in silver. Beyond Aredhel was Fingon, another cousin. Both brother and sister were jokingly mocking the other's shots, trying to best each other with a smile. But to her left stood the tall and proud Celegorm, remarkable huntsman and yet he held a short and sharp temper.

The next round came up, in which ten arrows were to be fired as quickly as possible into a far target. As usual, Artanis passed with relative ease, however Fingon scored the least well, and good-naturedly left the competition.

Aredhel was removed in the next round, as one of her arrows slipped to the right, and managed to land quite a distance from where it was intended to land.

The penultimate round removed Fingon from the competition, as two of this arrows hit the grassy ground instead of the target.

The final round had arrived at last. Artanis was battling for the title against Celegorm, a skilled hunter and athlete. They had to hit a small circle painted onto the trees at the copse, beyond the usual range. It was to be the best out of five arrows each.

She didn't think. She didn't need to. Her subconscious took over, and her arm moved on its own accord…

Thwack!

Thwack!

Thwack!

Thwack!

Thwack!

… and it was over.

Ten arrows were embedded into the trees, and it was hard to make out from this distance which set held true. Cúantur, the archery master, set for the copse to note who had won. Artanis stayed where she was, pent up with energy. It would only be a moment until the winner was announced, and she felt like a taught string, ready to snap or be released.

Slowly, Cúantur walked back to the start of the range. He raised his voice to the gathered crowds. "After being whittled down to these two fine competitors, I am pleased to announce that the winner of this archery contest, by only two close shots, is Celegorm, son of Fëanor! Artanis, daughter of Finarfin, came a very close second, only two shots just below the mark. Please join me in congratulating both competitors, whom posses such a remarkable level of skill!"

As the cheers of the crowd covered their ears, Celegorm turned to Artanis. "Very well shot, you have an incredible talent with the bow. Truly, I have only been able to best you on the help and tuition of my friend, Oromë, the great huntsman of the Valar. I would be honoured to introduce you to him, and to have a rematch after he his imparted his wisdom to you".

"Thank you, you are most kind. Indeed, it is unfortunate that we are not all great friends with the mighty Valar, but I truly would be grateful for the introduction. You show magnificent talent yourself, Very well played." She didn't feel angry or upset that she didn't win, but she was glad to have the chance against such an ellon.

She rejoined her family, waiting for her with open arms. "That was marvellous, Artanis," said her father, "I am most proud of you". Finrod enveloped her into a great hug, swinging her around whilst Angrod and Aegnor clapped and cheered.

Eärwen, her mother, smiled as she spoke. "You have surpassed all expectations of your strength and skill. I know pronounce that your mother-name will be Nerwen, meaning ellon-elleth, as you surely possess the ability of many ellon." Her warm embrace held Nerwen to her chest.

"Thank you, I like my new name, and I want to be known from now as Nerwen, rather than Artanis".

Great celebrations were had by all, and lasted long into the night. Finally, it was Nerwen's bed time, and she stumbled into her bed.

As always, strange places and people haunted her dreams, of happy times and sad recollections. An image of a fiery red-headed female chanting from an open book, a tall brunette glowing with green. Strange contraptions littered her night-time world, like metal carriages that drew themselves, and sparring with an intense man with some kind of sharp metal object. But what truly haunted her dreams were the vicious monsters that run amok, slaughtering people and causing great distress. Of what these visions could mean, she had no inkling of an idea. She just hoped that one day, they would be revealed to her.


	7. Chapter 7

Disclaimer: Me no own, don't sue

Disclaimer: Me no own, don't sue. To prevent being kidnapped by pirates, don't hand a one-legged pirate his crutch. To prevent a law suit, turn to Chapter One for a full disclaimer.

* * *

The dreams never left Nerwen. She never forgot them, but she could push them aside, lock them inside a box in her mind until such a moment presented itself to study them at leisure. It was a tactic she had been employing for most of her years, and had served her well.

She was currently on her way to meet with Oromë, a mighty Valar, to further her accuracy and technique with a bow. As her horse trotted through the lush surrounds, her mind started to work on the strange dreams, almost like memories. But how can they be hers, if nothing within the elusive visions made any kind of sense? It was an incredibly infuriating thought. She wished that these mirages would either materialise or recede, it was getting a bit too much trying to understand their meaning.

A break in the steady rhythm of her horse brought her out of her own private reverie, and she looked upwards to find the woods of Oromë filling out around her. Her horse still pushed onwards, understanding where she was to go, as Nerwen marvelled at the beauty of the forest. Tall, proud trees grew up into a radiant sunlight; the gaps in the canopy forming dappled shade on the forest floor, swaying in the breeze. Small animals scampered around on the floor and in the trees, playing with each other or foraging for food. Some of the larger animals cam out to greet her, curiosity drawing them near to the stranger in their midst. Woodland flowers grew out of the undergrowth, mixing in with a variety of ferns, mosses, and grasses. Nerwen sighed in contentment as the fresh smell of the forest filled her nose. Of life and growth, the earthy tones soothing her mind.

A dense wave of power ebbed out from a nearby grove. She went to investigate, this intense, yet calming fëa. Sure enough, as her hand brushed a few branches out of her view, a tall figure stood in a small clearing. He was strong, and possessed such a reassuring presence. When he spoke, his voice was deep and rumbled through the forest. "Greetings, child. Well met. I trust that you are the talented Nerwen that my friend Celegorm has told me all about?"

She smiled up at him. "Well met. I am indeed Nerwen, and I would be honoured if you could teach me the finesse of wielding a bow."

His tone was calm and comforting, the kind of way you would speak to a favoured niece or nephew. "I would be delighted. Come, before we start let us drink and eat to refresh ourselves. You must be weary after such a long journey".

And so Oromë and Nerwen shared fruits and cheeses, gathered water from a nearby spring and casually discussed many issues in their lives. Of the archery contest, and of the participants. Of news from Tirion, and the health of Finwë, Nerwen's grandfather.

When the elves first awoke in this world, after being called into existence by Eru Ilúvatar, they were lost. Oromë was sent out exploring the lands of Eä, and found the lost elves. He guided them on the Great Journey to Aman, whilst some lingered in the regions of Middle-earth and Beleriand where they wished to investigate further. One of the first elves to wake, was Finwë, and was chosen to lead the Noldor elves in their own journey and settlement to Aman. As such, Oromë always liked to keep an ear open for the news of his friend.

After light conversation had diminished, all the food had been consumed and Nerwen felt more rested, Oromë proceeded to teach her the subtleties and intricacies of using such a weapon. The weeks passed in much a similar fashion, until at last, Nerwen had learned all that she could from the great hunter.

Their parting was brief, yet enough. Nerwen was gifted with a stunning and beautiful bow, long enough for her to use with ease, without being too awkward and uncomfortable. Oromë gave her one final piece of advice: "It is soon coming to the time when Melkor will be free again. I beseech you to listen close to your own counsel during these times, as we do not know where his heart lies."

Much like she had mulled over her 'memories' on the journey to the Woods of Oromë, so she mulled over the partings words on her journey back to Tirion.

Melkor was a Vala. When the world was being formed from song, he sought to keep his own works, an original melody so different from the main theme. However, his new sounds struck a counterbalance and discord through the piece, which only heightened its beauty and depth. When he descended into the world, he took great delight in undoing the works of the other Valar and Ainur.

Eventually a Vala named Tulkas entered the world, and managed to drive Melkor out. However, Tulkas became distracted, and thus Melkor was able to enter the world again and he destroyed the Two Lamps – the original light source for Arda. The two huge pillars upon which they stood, came crashing down. Where they struck the ground, huge seas were formed, such was the scale of the damage. The disaster dispersed to Almaren, the home of the Valar at the time, at the point where the light from each lamp met. Needless to say, the island was destroyed utterly.

Fleeing to Valinor after the destruction, the Valar fortified their home by raising huge mountains on the east side of the island, with only one entrance to the way beyond. It is in this gap in the mountains where Tirion now stands.

Melkor started capturing and torturing elves, corrupting them into vile mutations of their former glory, when he first discovered there existence in the world. Enraged, the Valar declared war on Melkor and a brutal battle unfolded. Melkor's fortress in the Northern Wastes, Utumno, was destroyed, and Melkor himself captured by the Valar.

Aulë, the most skilled craftsman of the Valar, crafted a sturdy chain made out of six metals and part of his own essence and magic. His chain was secured thirty times around him, and was then imprisoned in the empty Halls of Mandos for a sentence of Three Ages.

If Three Ages have nearly passed, then he would be heard by the Valar, and he would be deemed worthy of parole or not. Nerwen wasn't so nervous and Oromë had made her feel. If the Valar found Melkor worthy, then surely his heart would be pure. For who can see into the souls of creatures if not the Valar? Thus, if he got released, then no terrible events shall occur. She just hoped that she was right.

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Sorry this chapter is a bit dense, but I need to pack in a lot of history before the other events start to unfold.


	8. Chapter 8

Me no own, don't sue. Full disclaimer can be found at the pub, where all my money has gone.

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The warm glow from the golden Laurelin spilled down onto Tirion. The great Tree poured golden rain from the clusters of its horn-shaped blooms, whilst warmth and light radiated to the far reaches of Valinor. Nerwen stopped her horse on a grassy mound as the full view of Tirion was spread before her. Atop the hill of Túna, the glistening city stood proudly. The great towers reached high into the sky, casting a mighty silhouette eastwards, bearing the standards of the great houses who resided there. By far the tallest of these towers was Mindon Eldaliéva, whose silver lamp shone far out into the mists of the sea. The glittering golden light fell against the white walls and terraces of the city, catching the western side alight, as if it had been aglow with a dazzling flame.

Needless to say, the sight was truly magnificent, and Nerwen felt a faint smile adorn her mouth as she felt the tug of home. Urging her steed into a lively gallop, they bounded the last of the distance, until they entered the city and the steady pound of hooves meeting paving hit her ears.

Once she had deposited her riding gear back to the stables, she raced through the familiar halls, until she reached her quarters and started preparing for a very long awaiting bath.

Life soon returned to normal, with household duties to be attended to, and adventurous forages in the forests with her brothers amongst other things, her day to day life was kept quite busy. She was content.

One of her favourite things to do was to visit some of the many gardens that littered the city. To study the creations of Yavanna at leisure, delighting in the diversity and beauty of the plants. It was one particular visit to a secluded garden on the northern side of the city, where the mighty Pelóri Mountains stood tall in the distance, that anything out of the normal routine happened.

The light from the stars shone down from above, and the light from each Tree was equal, coating the garden in a brilliant silvery-gold. Nerwen lost herself in her thoughts, gazing into a sparkling pool, when light footsteps alerted her to another's presence. Swiftly, she turned around, meeting the eyes of her new companion, an unspoken question radiating from her form.

"Well met, Fëanor" A tone of civility rested on her tongue. Her strange senses were once again picking up the usual traces of distrust and wariness, but for no logical reason that she could discern.

"The stars shine upon the hour of our meeting. This is a lonesome time to be out wandering the gardens, or if one preferred their own company. Would it please you if I left you to your thoughts? I would not want to intrude upon your solitude."

"Of course not, I would be happy to share your company. Is there a particular matter in which you would speak with me?" A small frown adorned her forehead, as she tried to think of anything that could concern her direct counsel.

His smile was easy, reassuring, comforting and yet mildly discerning. "Oh no particular matter as such. I am fond of walking through such beautiful surrounds, I ever find more that fascinates my mind. The light is stunning is it not? And how it fills this glorious garden like the swell of a tide. Such a delicate swirling of silver and gold, surely it must be the most divine sight we may see in this life."

His intense eyes flicked up at her, his gaze focussing on her shoulder as he still stood facing the distant mountains, body to the wall. A fine hand stretched from the hold on the cool stone, reached up as if to entwine itself in her hair, and suddenly, before Nerwen barely had time to register the movement, it stopped, and dropped once more to his side.

Ashamedly, against her nature, her breathing became shallow as her eyes found his and gazed into those fiery depths. She searched, looking for a purpose, an intention, an impression of his thoughts. He was truly indecipherable to her.

At length, he found his voice. His passionate tones were urgent, imploring. "Forgive me, my Lady, please. In the twilight of the Two Trees, your hair shimmers and dances before my eyes. I cannot help but long for a single strand, in which to craft into the most beautiful and radiant jewel I have yet made, or will ever make. I beg of you, to realise this dream for me, and grant my request. You must know that I do not ask you for this lightly, on a whim or a fancy. Your tress glimmers and glistens in the light, and I am completely lost in its brilliance. If you have any compassion within you, please let a craftsman achieve the ultimate goal of creating an object of unrivalled perfection."

She stood silently for a moment, eyes wide in surprise, before she could school for features and regain her composure. "I am humbled by your request, Lord Fëanor, but I am unable to grant you what you so wish. I still stand by what I said to you on that day at the Archery Tournament, that my hair stays on my head. I will not give you, nor anyone a single strand, and that is how it will be. Please do not question me further upon this matter, I will remain with this judgement."

And with that she fled into the relative solitude and privacy of her quarters.

Silence crept over the realm that night, as the mighty seven-metalled chain of Angainor was brought forward from the Halls of Mandos, dragging its captive before the great seats of Máhanaxar, where the council will make a decision.


End file.
